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1885 




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1 



UNDER THE PINE 



BY 




M F BRIDGMAN 



Author of " Mosses " 
A volume of Lyric and Idyllic Poemi 



BOSTON 

CUPPLES UPHAM AND COMPANY 

283 Washington Street 

1885 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



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.1885. 



UNDER THE PINE 



BY 



M F BRIDGMAN 

Author of " Mosses " 
A volume of Lyric and Idyllic Poems 



lo 



" What whisperest thou ? Nay, why 
Name the dead hours? I mind them well." 



Dante Gabriel Rostetti. 




BOSTON 
CUPPLES UPHAM AND COMPANY 

283 Washington Street 
1885 



fS 






Copyright, 1885, 
By M. F. Bridgman. 



So Banilfam 33j;untoti. 

The tree is green, and then the dry leaves fall, 
So fair, but withers soon, the summer rose — 
Love changes, and the friendships of the world 
Grow cold. But as the silent hour-glass runs, 
Remains our friendship, a perennial flower, 
Outlasting every blight and frost of Time. 
And year by year it shall its fragrance keep, 
Unchill'd by days that steal our sands away, 
But leave, at least, our mutual faith and trust 
Unchang'd by any lapse of seasons still, 
Or any turn of Fortune's fickle wheel. 




CONTENTS. 



The Likeness on the Wall ... 9 

Jane 13 

A Mill-Idyl 15 

Within the Gate 19 

One Dreamy Day . . . . 21 

Low-Tide 24 

Leaves in the Wind . . . . 28 

Seaward 3 2 

By Caslin's Wood . . . . 34 

In October 3^ 



CONTENTS. 




PAGE 



On an Old Portrait of Swift . . 40 

The Upward Path 42 

On the Banhs of Acheron ... 43 
The Two Wanderers . . . .46 

Shadow and Dawn .... 48 

Nepenthe ....... 50 

Sub Astra . . . . . . 52 

Sleep 54 

Agnes . . . . , . . 56 
The Church by the Green . . . .60 
The Last Request . . . . . 61 
A Revery 64 



UNDER THE PINE. 



" What pain, 

But the plucked leaf of it smells fragrantly? 

What sense 
Keeps in its hot sharp extreme violence 
No savor of sweet things ? " 




THE LIKENESS ON THE WALL. 



Here is her portrait o'er the marble bust, 
And oftentimes upon the silent face 
I gaze, when I am in a musing mood. 
I 'm sure you '11 own the countenance is fine. 
The quiet eyes are fair and full of thought, 
But mild and dreamy as an autumn day. 
The forehead is not high but beautiful — 
The brows, I think, are delicately arch'd, 
The nose as fine as Ariadne's. Say — 
Are not the mouth well molded, and the chin ? 
A pensive sweetness have the lips, such as 
I oft recall. The long, luxuriant hair 



io The Likeness on the Wall. 

Which falls about the temples, and half hides 
The neck, looks warm in this October sun 
That softly through the casement gleams. And 

here 
I sit and sometimes gaze for a whole hour 
Upon this portrait. The original 
Long since has mingled with the earth, and 

sleeps 
Within the rich Italian soil, at Rome, 
Hard by the pyramid of Cestius. 
It is a still, secluded spot on which 
The turf, moist with the soft Italian dew, 
Each year is green. The violets blossom now 
Upon it every Roman winter. There 
Might one sleep well. 

Quite true, you '11 trace, I think, 
Some features in the physiognomy 
And mine — a family resemblance — but 
The likeness is not marked. Younger than I 
By fifteen years, one mother had we both, 
Not the same father. Of a gentle nature — 
Of better mold than common clay — she droop'd, 



The Likeness on the Wall. n 

Alas ! when morn as yet had scarcely verged 
To the full day — faded at twenty. I 
Remember well — 't was only three short months 
Before we laid her in her Roman grave — 
One cloudless evening of an autumn day 
We sat upon the Palatine, and saw 
The clear sun set — as all the Sabine hills, 
The summits of the distant Apennines, 
With crimson glowed and purple, till at last, 
The lingering sunlight through the ancient trees 
Fell on the ruins at our feet, and stole 
The deepening shadows over all the scene. 
There as we sat beneath the cypresses 
And watched the evening star — 
And one by one the silent hours slid by — 
So long we talke'd of days that were no more, 
And of the Future, of the mystery 
Of Life, and how the glory of the world 
Doth fade — while Hope and Love remain. 
There as we sat beneath the cypresses 
And watched the evening star — as on her face 
The moonlight fell, — "A few short months," — 
she said, 



i2 The Likeness on the Wall. 

" And this frail frame of mine will quite suc- 
cumb, 
This transitory dream be o'er — and here 
Amid the shadows of a twilight Past, 
My sleep be calm even in an alien soil." 
And through the solemn silence then we heard 
The convent bell upon the Ccelian Hill 
Tolling for midnight orisons. Ah, sir, 
How often, with the memory of her, 
Comes back that hour ! 

So mellow falls the light 
Upon the face ! There something you will 

learn 
Of that fair spirit whose remembrance still — 
Through every year — is fragrant in my soul. 











JANE. 



Where wert thou, vesper-sparrow, when the 

sun 
O'er Raymond's forest set at yester-eve — 
When long he lingered there as loth to go — 
And lingered long the light of parting day 
Upon the silent hill ? At yester-eve 
I heard you not nor my false lover saw. 
"When sets the sun in Raymond's wood," he 

said, 
" But lingers yet the light on Hartley's hill, 
And on the slope is heard the vesper-bird, 



14 



jfane. 



I '11 meet you at the stile by Ingalls' pines." 

At yester-eve by Ingalls' whispering pines, 

As set the sun in Raymond's wood, and slow 

The daylight went from Hartley's hill, 

For him I waited long. At yester-eve 

For him I plucked a flower by Liscomb's spring, 

Two honeysuckles hard by yonder stream, 

Two columbines below the quiet cliff, 

Six bellworts from the run — and twined this 

wreath 
Of hazel-leaves. For him I waited long, 
As daylight went and twilight o'er me stole, 
While in the pines I heard the whippowil, 
And on me shone so wan the waning moon ! 





A MILL-IDYL. 



If, when you go toward Landis Green, you turn 
A short half-mile this side the noiseless vill, 
And cross the low-arched bri -Ige that spans the 

brook, 
Where leans a clump of alders o'er the bank, 
You '11 see beside the smooth and narrow way, 
A dozen rods beyond the babbling stream, 
Behind a locust and a sycamore, 
The mill — and scarce a rod above it where 
The willows, rank with ooze and moisture, 

droop 
Above a shallow pond. In summer days 
A pleasant and a dreamy shade is cast 
Along the by-road and about the mill, 
And on the bosom of the quiet pond. 



1 6 A Mill-Idyl. 

Hard by it every year the spearwort blooms, 
Aud at its margin flames the marigold. 
While bars of golden light the water streak, 
As through the leaves the warm west glows, 

whene'er 
The sun is low. You mount the great stone 

step, 
Across the ancient, well-worn threshold pass, 
As swims the light dust in the beams that steal 
Through the dim window-panes. And there the 

sound 
Of grinding swells the hazy air within, 
Which shakes the heavy cobwebs as they hang 
About the windows where the huge flies buzz 
And die. Therein so oft on cloudless nights 
The silent moon looks wan. And window- 
frames 
There rattle with a melancholy sound, 
By gusty night-winds stirred. Then sway the 

long, 
Lithe willows in the moonlight, and no more 
The tranquil shadows sleep, but wildly dance 



A Mill- Idyl. 17 

About the lonesome spot, and sleeps no more 
Within the wrinkled pond the midnight sky. 
In at the eastern window faintly peers 
The morn. And half the long, warm afternoons, 
Through the great doorway burns the westering 

sun, 
And creeps the shade athwart the dusty panes, 
As swift the swallow flits about the eaves, 
Or sits the phcebe by the water-way, 
And swings below the casement in the reeds. 

The miller at the mill, 
Sits in his chair, 
With wrinkled face 

And hair so white, 

And thinks, " Well-a-day, 

How Time gets on ! 

Long — long — 

The grists I 've tolFd — 

Long — long — 

I 've ground the grain — 

And so long 

Have the mill-stones now 



A Mill-Idyl. 

With the years spun round ! 

So Time gets on — 

Alack ! will the world stop soon ? 

The sun 

In the sycamore sets, 

And the world wags on. 





WITHIN THE GATE. 

You 'll see it near the ancient gateway, 
But a rod from the low, dark pine — 
I cannot tell how many summers 
Has bloom'd over Alice 
The clover. 



It can be scarcely less than twenty 
Since the willow was planted there - 
And many autumns I remember 
Has swung by the headstone 
The aster. 



20 Within the Gate. 

It can be scarcely less than twenty 
Since the eglantine nodded there, 
And waved above the spot the daisy — 
Or crept o'er her bosom 
The ivy. 

And there hard by the ancient gateway 
But a rod from the low, dark pine, 
Each year the turf is green above her, 
And leans o'er the footstone 
The yarrow. 







(f^ 






©Mfe(^ 




ONE DREAMY DAY.* 



So cool the slope by Willoughby's wood, 
From which has crept the shadow half-down 
To yonder brook in Collamer's field. 
I '11 keep the path that runs by the ash 
And winds below the whistle-wood tree. 
Along the vale burns Montagu's stream, 
And glows the pond by Atherton's mill ! 
There lean the willows over the bridge, 
Whose short, low arch the meadow-brook spans, 
While all the mellow landscape is husht 
As on some Sabbath morn — and the air 
Is drowsy as the silence of eve ! 



*This poem, in its measure, is similar to Mr. Matthew 
Arnold's " Rugby Chapel," with this difference, — that 
the verse of " Rugby Chapel " consists of two iambics 
and an anapest, the author's, of three iambics and an 
anapest. 



22 One Dreamy Day. 

Beyond the narrow by-way below, 
So still the cottage sleeps in the vines, 
Behind the ancient sycamore tree — 
And yonder from the westering sun, 
The dusty highway quietly climbs 
To Morton's distant door in the pines, 
From the still street of Leamington Green, 
Where deep the village dreams in the elms, 
And shines so warm above it the spire ! 

But there 's the cottage — there is the yard 
The pathway hence that leads to the porch, 
Where rank the woodbine over it crawls. 

'Tis now more years than I care to count, 
Since in the leisure, long afternoons, 
Rolf idly leaning here by the gate, 
As slow the shadows crept from the hill, 
Discuss'd the weather, news, and the farm, 
Or sitting in the shade of the vines, 
Would talk with me an evening away, 
Or Ruth, (so sweet the tones I recall ! ) 
Would sing a quiet air by the door, 
To which old Rolf would listen intent, 



One Dreamy Day. 23 

And stole a tear at times from his eye, 

As in his soul some echo awoke, 

Whene'er the song was plaintive or sad. 

And oft of one in Paradise then, 

He "d led a bride from Leamington church, 

And whom the mighty Angel of Death 

One day had kissed so coldly at morn, 

Long since, while yet the locust was white — 

Oft heard him say her image he saw, 

Ever her precious features beheld, 

In Ruth's fair face. 

So distant the scene ! 

Soft as a hazy October day, 

Or some still landscape seen in a dream. 

But by the open window I hear 

Behind the honeysuckle a voice : 

When, beyond its restless dreams, 
Shall this fevered life be calm ? 
When the summer heats are o'er, 
When the mellow days have come, 
And the leaf is sere ? 

When shall ripening friendship yet 
Fairer be than summer flower ? 
When the rose has ceased to bloom — 
When the still October comes — 
And the leaf is sere. 




LOW-TIDE.* 

" Was it the Sea ? " 

He asked — 

And far off broke the tide. 

The words 

In slow and faltering speech 

He spoke. 

Standing beside his bed, 

And gazing on his countenance so pale — 

Alas — so pale — 

I from the bedside turned, 
Looking with sad eyes out 
Upon the calm, clear Night — 



*In the poems, " Low Tide," "Shadow and Dawn," 
while the verse is of irregular length, the rhythm, for 
the most part, has been maintained. 



Low-Tide. ^25 

" It is the tide 
Which breaks forever 
On the distant shore," 

I said — 

" The ceaseless anthem 

Of the mighty Sea," 

In undertone, I said — 
And look'd the heavens 
So still — 

" It is the tide 

That in the night 

Is breaking on the shore, 

Beneath 

The full-orbed Moon," 

I said — 

" So oft the Moon 
Has risen, 
So oft has set, 

Upon the Sea ! " 

I said — 

" So oft illum'd 
4 



26 Low- Tide. 

The depths 

Where the sea-weed 

Is rank, 

Where coral caves 
With rank sea-moss 
Are green, 

And muffled fall 

The footsteps 

Of the centuries ! " 

Was it the Sea ? 
Or broke the tide 
Of Life so low ? 

I gazed 

Upon his face — 

His eyes were glazed in death 

And then 

From out the window 

Late I watch'd the calm 

That brooded 

O'er the midnight world — - 

There at my window, 



LQW-Tide. 

Looking out 
Between the vines 
Upon the moonlit bay — 

As long I lean'd 

Against the panes — 

I heard no sound but of the Sea. 



*7 




LEAVES IN THE WIND. 



I sat upon the sward hard by, and he 
Against the gray rock lean'd. 

" That dream ! " he said, 
" 'Twas painted with the richest hues of morn, 
But faded ere two summers went, and scarce 
Outlived a year. Like some rare vision one 
Beholds in sleep, but soon forgets when night 
Is o'er." 

Warm lay the sunshine on the slope, 
And rustled often in the copse the leaves, 
While ever in the cedar sigh'd the wind. 
" A transient dream ! as brief as it was rare/' 
He said, " and rare as it was brief." 



Leaves in the Wind. 29 

There was 
A dreamy look within his eye, and as 
At times the breeze his forehead gently fann'd, 
Hard by, upon the cliff, I heard the jay. 

" And Harry, well, you tell me is in Spain ? 
And Helen ? — not a word as yet of her." 
"She 's living in the old square mansion still," 
I said, "married, long since, to your friend 

Ralph. 
Not quite the beauty which you knew her once. 
To-day, my grey-hair'd boy, your girlish flame 
Is a staid matron with a quiet air, 
And thoughtful countenance, whereon you '11 

read 
The graver meaning and experience 
Of forty — while a wrinkle here and there 
Already marks her brow, and some white 

threads 
Withal are streaking now the dark-brown hair. 
At Ware I saw her but an August since — 
When long we talked within the great front 

room 



30 Leaves, in the Wind. 

Of college days — and oft she asked of you — 
And many reminiscences rehearsed 
Of those old times. Well, yes, Elizabeth 
Has quite her mother's looks as she was then, 
Her pleasant forehead and her hazel eye, 
Her handsome neck and chin. But Time, I' 

think, 
Has never wholly heal'd the mother's heart — 
For when she told me how you pluck'd for her 
A rose, one far-off, balmy eve in June — 
And how you walked the orchard path with her 
One May, so long ago, while all the slope 
Was white with apple-blossoms, when you 

twined 
Three wild-flowers in her hair — there was a 

deep 
Emotion which she could not hide, that seemed 
To tremble in her voice at times — and when 
At length she rose from where she sat, and 

gazed 
So silent from the window through the vines, 
Looking awhile in an abstracted mood 
Upon the quiet grass-plots in the yard, 



Leaves in the Wind. 31 

Where slept the shadows on the summer turf — 
And when she sang a little, plaintive air 
To that quaint song, the last you ever sang 
With her, in your last visit to the Manse, 
That July evening ere you went from Ware — 
And while the mellow sunlight from the West 
Stole through the woodbine whispering soft and 

low, 
And sighed the solemn cedar in our ears, 
Between the pauses of her music and our talk — 
Three times her voice with her emotion choked, 
I thought — and thrice I saw a tear-drop fall ! " 

The languid lake lay half in shade below — 
And as the air of summer o'er us stole, 
I heard upon the lonesome cliff the jay. 




g^^^g^g 






SEAWARD. 



On the shore I stood, 
By the surging waves, 
Ever on the long beach breaking. 

And afar I saw, 

On the deep, blue main, 

Three ships slowly sailing seaward. 

Three ships in the sun, 
O'er the deep, blue main, 
Toward the summer sunset sailing. 

Till I saw them sink, 

Slowly dipping low, 

To the golden gates of evening ! 



Seaward. 

Ah ! the ships that go 
Over Life's wide main, 
Time-borne barks returning never 

Will ye anchor fast 

By the blissful isles, 

Or the golden gates of sunset ? 



33 





BY CASLIN'S WOOD. 

There swings the gentian in the light south 

wind, 
Where sleeps the shadow of the cliff. Afar 
The quiet landscape in rhe sunshine glows, 
Where Bosworth's brook burns softly in the 

elms. 
And softly in my memory glows the thought 
Of one calm evening which I oft recall. 



" I stay awhile, perhaps, in England, ere 
I cross the Channel to the continent," 
He said, and broke the pause. " Some weeks, 

I think, 
In France, before I visit Italy. 
Amid the distant scenes of Europe still 



By Cas/in's W&od. 35 

Shall I live o'er this silent summer hour." 
And slowly sunk the yellow August sun, 
The evening shadows o'er us stealing soft, 
The daylight waning till the twilight fell 
Upon the gentle slope and all the vale. 

" So warm the sun in Rupert's pines will set 
In fancy as I gaze on alien skies, 
Reviving in my memory these words," 
He said. And then he spoke of those three 

years 
Which he would pass in Italy, and where 
He was to study ancient art amid 
The masterpieces of old Greece and Rome. 
But first he was to linger for a month 
At Florence. 

Ah ! — how long he talk'd and I 
Of that Old World — of Athens' glory yet 
Undimm'd, and Rome's — of those great ora- 
tors 
Of by-gone ages who are speaking on, 
Whose voices through the centuries have charm'd 
The world's vast ear, and charm the nations 
still — 



$6 By Cas/m's Wood. 

While of the ancient poets oft we talk'd, 
Menander and the mighty Grecian bards, 
Of later bards of the Augustan age, 
Whose brows are green with their unfading lays, 
Of Virgil's deathless name — and afterwards 
Of seasons that would bury him among 
The treasures of the Roman Capitol, 
The silent relics of a ruined Past, 
Hallow'd by History and classic lore. 
And long we talk'd of human destiny, 
The slender thread the Fates forever spin, 
And sever with their fatal shears — and long 
Of life's deep mystery — the mystic bond 
Which binds our spirits to the Unseen World — 
And friendships that no clime could chill, no 

years 
Could wither. 

Came, at length, an end of these 
High themes, and of our talk, when neither 

broke 
The dusky stillness with our words, while more 
And more the darkness hid his face and mine. 



By Castm's Wood. 



37 



There was no moon, and as we eastward 
gazed 
Upon the sky, a quiet star shone forth 
Above a single, solitary cloud. 

I think so many years you 've slept beneath 
The cypresses of Tivoli. And there 
Above the dark cloud yet — shines still your 
star ! 




IN OCTOBER. 

The corn is ripe upon the hill, 
Has flown the swallow — 

The redstart and the oriole 

From the still orchard — 
But the high-hole I hear 
On the dry ash bough. 

Have come the dreamy days of October. 
I sit by the door, 
And muse on the autumn. 



Nods by the road the golden-rod, 
The rye is yellow — 

Beyond me in the grassland blooms 
The last, late daisy — 
But the sycamore tree, 
By the meadow is bare. 

Ah ! hazy, pensive days of October ! 
I hear the shrill cricket, 
And muse on the autumn. 



In October. 39 

With summer and the robin went 

The vesper-sparrow — 
No more I hear in yonder pine 

The yellow-warbler — ■ 

And the indigo-bird 

From the thicket is gone. 
Ah, mild and mellow days of October ! 

Through the locust I look, 

And muse on the autumn. 

Within the copse the oak is red, 

There burns the sumac — 
While on the quiet pasture slope 
Lingers the thistle — 
And waves in the woodland, 
The aster to-day. 
Ah, sere and sober month of October ! 
Half-sad are my thoughts, 
As I muse on the autumn. 




ON AN OLD PORTRAIT OF SWIFT. 



What if he stands among the great of earth, 
So far above the common herd of men, 
And rules, the monarch of a vast domain, 
In solitary grandeur, like a king ? 
For one, I say, oft as the thought of him 
Darkens the Present, like a mighty Shade, 
I 'd not accept the more than regal crown 
Which this head wears, nor wield his sceptre, 

though 
A greater one than Charlemagne's, to be 
This king, so gloomy and so great. 
O Stella and Vanessa's shade ! O shade 
Of the great Dean ! So many years, I think, 



On an Old Portrait of Swift. 41 

Have your three graves been green, while you, 

dn fame, 
Are linked to each in an immortal tale ! 
The world grows sad as it the tale repeats, 
Two souls who loved the great Dean once, — 

and yet 
Were crushed beneath this adamantine heart, 
And claspt it fondly still in death. Two hearts 
Which long ago found peace. Two souls whose 

crown 
Of martyrdom will brighten with the lapse 
Of Time — whose love shall scent your English 

sod, 
Its perfume lingering in the frosty years — 
When on this brow the laurel-wreath is sere. 



M A t$$k M 
A A A 

A A 



THE UPWARD PATH. 

Low has sunk the moon, 
And the stars are shining clear — 
But so deep in yonder vale 
Lie the shadows. 

Ah ! the grass is wet, 
Wet, at length, and chill with dew 
While my feet have wandered late 
In the midnight. 

Yet I wander on 
O'er the silent, solemn height, 
In the moonlight faint and dim, 
And the starlight. 

For I hasten hence 
From the gloomy gates of Night, 
And the ghouls that do not rest 
There forever. 




ON THE BANKS OF ACHERON. 



Of that old mythologic world I long 

Had thought, that night, and how in classic 

lore 
'T was said, " The souls of all whene'er they 

quit 
This mortal sphere, are rowed the dark stream 

o'er 
By Death's grim ferryman." And as in sleep 
Our waking thoughts do oft take shape in 

dreams, 
And Fancy at her loom weaves any web 
She will, this dream, at length, I dream'd, which 

yet 
Scarce seems a dream. 



44 On the Banks of Acheron. 

Therein I thought I look"d 
On Heaven's fair face no more — and I had 

pass'd 
The confines of the upper world, and thence 
To Erebus had made my lonely way. 
I thought I breathed no more the vital air, 
But was a shade within the realm of shades, 
And stood, a spectre, on the cheerless banks 
Of that cold river, murky Acheron — 
A sluggish tide which mov'd without a sound — 
A stark, still stream, that waveless flow'd ! I 

thought 
That there the warm sun never rose or set, 
That never any air the fatal realm 
Did fan, but pulseless was that under-world 
As is a tomb. That there the faint light came 
I knew not whence, and never broke the morn, 
Nor shone the day, but twilight brooded deep 
Forever over all the scene. That tree, 
Or shrub, or herb, could never there be seen, 
That there no bird had ever flapt its wing, 
Nor beast, nor insect stirred in all those fields 
Of death. How dreary seemed the stream and 

chill I 



On the Ba?iks of Acheron. 45 

As long and often from its brink I gazed 

To catch some glimpses of the further shore ! 

Beside me hovered on the bank a crowd 

Of shivering ghosts within the twilight pale, 

Or stood and looked, so wistfully, I thought, 

Upon the sullen flood below, as fell 

Their tones upon the plaintive stillness there. 

The wail I heard. " What trusty ferryman 

Shall row us o'er the dismal Acheron, 

To yonder shore whence stretch the happy 

fields ? 
We fain would cross the dismal stream with 

thee ! " 

And rang the mournful accents in my ears — 
When through the gloom I saw, as one afar 
A cloud across a hazy autumn sky, 
You, Charon, as your boat the current cleav'd 
With dusky keel ! a moving form reveal'd 
Obscurely in the distance as I gazed, 
That toward us row'd with ever noiseless speed ! 
Then touched your boat, how quietly, at length, 
The hither shore! like some dark shadow 
moor'd 



&6 On the Banks of Acheron. 

Upon the strand — and you, a spectre, like 

The ghosts you ferried thence ! 

So silently, 

At last, you left the cheerless strand, and o'er 

The waters glided with your spectral crew, 

The murky current crossing in the ghostly gloom, 

The silence never broken by a sound 

Of your aerial oars ! 

So when, indeed, 

I 've passed beyond the realm of vital air, 

Securely row me o'er the chilly stream, 

O ferryman, whose boat shall lightly cleave 

The silent tide, and thrice thy fee I '11 give. 

Then, Charon, I will call you pleasant names, 

And stroke your snowy beard — but never hear 

In that still flood the dip of your light oar. 

THE TWO WANDERERS. 

In the chilly air of midnight, 

Walkt we up and down the Mystic Vale, 
All the grass with dew was heavy, 

And the waning moon was setting wan — 



The Two Wanderers. 47 

When, at length, I said to Psyche, 

Standing by a wildly rushing stream, 
" See, the moonlight fast is fading, 

Long we wander by this solemn shore — 
And the wild way winding whither ? " 

Then with thoughtful eyes that look'd so sad, 
And with pale lips, said she — " Whither 

Life is calm beyond this restless tide." 

And it flows and flows forever 

To a silent and an unknown sea — 
While we roam and roam together 

In that vale within the Mystic Land — 
And so oft I say to Psyche, 

Standing by the wildly rushing stream, 
" Still we wend the lonely by-ways ! 

And but half the toilsome journey done — 
Weary by-ways, winding whither ? " 

Then with thoughtful eyes that look so sad, 
And with pale lips, says she, " Whither 
Life is calm beyond this restless tide." 



wvfw 




SHADOW AND DAWN. 



" The Past returns not, 
And to-morrow lies 
Beyond the sun. 

The flowers 
Have fallen 
From the last year's stalk, 

And Hope, 

The rarest flower of all, 

Alas ! has scarce outliv'd the rose." 

And as she spoke the words, 

We look'd along 

The smooth, still slope, 



Shadow and Dawn. 49 

As crept the shadow 
Slowly towards 
The long, low vale, 

While o'er the ridge 
The evening glow'd, 
And in the wood the daylight died. 

" Behind us is the Past," I said, 
" The Future lies 
O'er yonder hill, 

Where in the east 
The sinking sun 
For us shall rise, 

When night is o'er, 
And breaks, at length, 
The morrow-morn — 

And Hope shall flower 

Again for us, 

When every flower has flown." 






NEPENTHE, 



So silent is the room — so husht and dim — 
Where nothing breaks the stillness but the sound 
Of our low voices — and the sombre gloom 
Is pale with that scant light which yonder 

steals 
Through close-drawn curtains, and the dark- 
ened panes. 
And yet why speak in undertones, or shut 
The sunshine out ? The ear of Death is cold, 
Nor would the eyes that closed at yester-eve, 
Be dazed by this May morn. So fair, say you ? 
Not Life itself could ever give to her 
The beauty which this marble paleness does, 
This marble-like repose. The quiet brow, 
The calm and long-lashed lids, the lips, their 
sweet 



Nepenthe. 5 1 

Expression keeping yet, and this brown hair 
Which round the pale neck falls, are passing 

fair 
In that deep sleep. And look, I 'm sure you '11 

mark 
The chin so finely modeled — while the cheek, 
Where scarce you see the ravage of disease, 
Is in its wanness beautiful with that 
Stray lock upon 't. 

'T is near the middle path, 
In yonder churchyard, by the aspen tree, 
They '11 break the turf to-morrow — at the dawn, 
And then they '11 lay her loveliness away 
In yon still spot. 

To-morrow, ah ! so soon, 
They'll rattle on the coffin lid the earth, 
And crush the clammy clods. And then I '11 

wish 
The earth that covers her would cover me. 
If I could lie within the quiet grave 
Which shall forever hide this lifeless form, 
I 'd press this clay-cold face to mine, and call 



52 Nepenthe. 

Death lovely. There so close my heart would be 
To hers, I'd never reck of winding-sheet, 
Of darkness, or the grave, nor of decay, 
Of loneliness, or ghastliness, or mold. 
I 'd think Death lovely, and I 'd rest, I know, 
In blessed peace with her. 

And by the path 
They'll break the turf to-morrow, at the morn. 
Yes, in the faint, gray daylight of the dawn. 

SUB ASTRA. 

O'er the narrow, quiet streamlet, 
Lean'd the willows in the night-air — 
Slept the elms along the lowland, 
And the alders dark beyond us — 
While the summer silence hushed the voiceless 
vale. 

Slept the farm-house in the locusts, 
Morton's mill among the poplars, 
And so still the drowsy village — 
On the slope the heavy shadows, 
And the midnight in the lonely forest glade. 



Sub Astra. 53 

" Yes," he said, " so many seasons 
Since that vision went, have vanished — 
And so oft the dead dreams rustle 
In how many distant autumns — 
Rustle like the year's late leaves in wind-blown 
fields." 



And we sat and talked in dreamland, 
Long beyond the dusky meadow — 
" Sombre," said he, " is yon pine-tree, 
In this scanty August moonlight " — 
" Ah ! " I said, " o'er Wayland's wood the moon 
is wan ! " 




SLEEP. 



Sweet spirit, stealing in the quiet night 
From out the mystic land of dreams — so calm 
Your realm ! whose bound'ry is our mortal life 
And the mysterious world beyond. Weird 

Power, 
With subtle spell ! that on the pillow'd head 
Dost breathe with influence soft as dying airs 
At summer eve — thine is the fairy clime 
Where earthly spirits tireless walk. Therein 
Thou art omnipotent, O Sleep divine, 
That dost reverse the hour-glass of our life, 



Sleep. 55 

The memory picture with the vanish'd Past, 
Bring back for one short hour what Death has 

claim'd, 
In more than mortal loveliness, disrobed 
Of the grave's cerements, and the voices husht 
So still — the lineaments long since erased 
By the oblivious tomb, and the warm kiss 
Of Love — that to the guilty dost restore 
Youth's innocence, and blood-red hands washt 

clean, 
To man his Eden, and the stainless Peace 
Which haunts him like a dream of Paradise — 
Weave quiet fancies round the troubled brain, 
Drop on the eyelids of the aching sense 
Thy drowsy poppies from the silent air — 
And anguish'd souls that through the nightly 

stars 
Pray'd for the blessed morn, dost soothe with 

draughts 
Of thy nepenthe — - O, to human lips 
No draught of Hebe's cup so sweet as thine, 
Where all sad thoughts, and care, and pain are 

drown'd. 





m 





AGNES. 



'Twas by an altar, in an ancient church, 
At Michaelmas, a maiden prayed for death — 
And this the prayer she prayed so earnestly, 
Low-kneeling there before the crucifix : 
" O Son of Mary, who art pitiful ! 
The freshness and the greenness of my life 
Is gone — and oft my breath is but a sigh. 
I am as one who sits in cheerless days 
Above the dead, dry mould of summer fields, 
And hears the mournful Autumn sigh — or hears 
The bleak winds wildly wail in all the woods 
Of Spring. So dreary and so joyless seems 
My life to me, that this one boon I crave — 
This boon I crave, and ask — that I may taste 
The sweetness and the blessedness of death." 



Agnes. 57 

One after one the laggard months go by. 
Late is the hour, and all the winds are still, 
When underneath the silent summer moon, 
She with a lover in the churchyard walks. 
Why seek the two the churchyard lone and still, 
Or there rewalk the grass-grown path so oft, 
Where headstones glisten in the moonlight 

pale ? 
Below the quiet moon they tell their love, 
And plight their troth beneath the cypress-tree ! 
Then he, in one brief month, would claim his 

bride, 
The two be wed within the ancient church, 
That stood with ivied walls and tower thereby, 
Where once the maiden knelt, at Michaelmas, 
And prayed before the crucifix for death. 



'Tis at the midnight, in the ancient church, 
When all the winds for that short hour are 

still, 
And stars are shining with uncertain light, 
While in the west the waning moon is wan. 



58 Agnes. 

So dense the throng, that scarcely there is seen 
The haggard sexton's form, whose grave, hard- 

by, 

Within the shadow of the gloomy fir, 
To-night is green — or hers, the withered belle, 
Who died so long ago — or hers, once young, 
But looking so sepulchral in the crowd, 
On whom in autumn late the aster blooms 
Each year — or hers, with face so blanch'd, who 

pass'd 
One August in her spring from earth, and 

stands 
Before the picture of the risen Christ — 
Or hers, the maiden by a lighted shrine, 
Whose eyes on yon Madonna oft are bent, 
Who faded like a rare and fragile flower 
One far-off June — or scarce is noticed hers, 
On earth a castaway, who gazes long 
Upon the likeness of the Magdalen — 
Or hers, on whom the grass is rank, who turns 
So often to the painting on the wall, 
The martyrdom of St. Sebastian — 
Or hers, within the twilight of a niche, 



Agnes. 59 

Whose life went out upon her wedding-day, 
On whom each year has waved the guelder- 
rose — 
Or hers, the fair bride once, but standing there 
With countenance so white against the panes, 
Who died one May-day in her honey-moon, 
And lies to-night beneath the eglantine ! 

Lo, up the aisle the bridegroom and the bride 
To the high altar walk. And there, as sets 
The waning moon, and tolls the midnight bell 
Within the ivied tower — the twain are wed. 

Thereat, imprinting on her face a kiss, 
He claspt his bride. Then o'er her features 

stole 
A mortal paleness — while in low, faint tones, 
As when a breeze is dying in the pines, 
She breathed these words in slow, expiring 

breath : 
" So sweet thy kiss — more sweet than Life — 

my Love — 
But on my cheek, O Death, thy lips are cold ! " 



THE CHURCH BY THE GREEN. 



The old church stands by the village green, 

With its roof so low and its belfry so high - 

Rank crawls the woodbine 

Round its windows so small 

And creeps o'er the eaves. 

On its roof so low grows the moss so green, 
And round its tower the ivy twines — 
Oft in the belfry 
Builds the swallow its nest, 
In the gable the wren. 

And each year rings the sexton so old, 
The brazen bell in the tower so tall — 
Daily its shadow 
Steals o'er the graves, 
While the sun goes down. 




THE LAST REQUEST. 

I 'd hoped that I might see another morn, 
But, doctor, 't is low tide with me. The pain 
That rack'd my side is gone, and now my brain, 
Which was a whirling world of cloudy thoughts, 
At last is clear. I 've something on my mind 
I 'd say, before the tide goes out. You Ve done 
What you could do, but well I know, too well, 
I '11 never in the good ship Falcon make 
Another voyage. Ah, sir, closer come, 
Or you '11 not hear. If you *d but take the load 
From off my chest which makes my breath so 

short — 
But no, you cannot — if you could, I 'd try 



62 The Last Request. 

To speak above. this faint, low tone. Come 

close, 
For I must make you understand. 

O, yes, 
Her far-off home, I said, was there, hard by 
The English coast — and there the wife I wed 
One summer morn, but twelve short seasons 

since, 
Is waiting, but in vain, for my return. 
What sound is that ? Say you, it is the wind 
That in the yard is sighing in the pine ? 
I thought, I thought it was the roaring main, 
And we 'd been struck by some nor'wester. 

So 
The message, doctor, I 've not told you yet ? 
But something said I, have I not, of her ? 
Here is a locket with her miniature. 
This, with the message, send her, that my 

thoughts, 
At this last hour, went back to her. What bell 
Is that? The clock's which strikes the hour 

of twelve, 
Say you ? I thought it was the Falcon's — yes, 



The Last Request. 63 

And toll'd the knell of some poor comrade. 

Well, 
No clay-clods pile on me when I am dead — 
They 'd press me down — the earth would lie 
So like a stone upon my breast, I could not rest. 
Two mornings hence, at dawn, the ship will sail. 
Make me a shroud o' the ship's sheet — and then 
Let some short service or a prayer be said — 
And be my grave the wide, the wide, wild 

waves — 
The bosom of the all-embracing Sea. 







A REVERY. 

The time, the place, I thmk, are now so distant, 
It was an August eve, as I remem ber, 
And we were sitting on the quiet grass-plot. 

So gently o'er us stole the night's slow shadow, 
As rose the moon so sharp above the hemlocks, 
And in the yard the cedar-tree was sighing. 

So long we sat and watch'd the distant lighthouse, 
The far-off village and the dusky headland, 
So long the river flowing darkly seaward. 



So oft the languid night-wind stirred your tresses, 
So long our hands were claspt in that still star- 
light, 
So low and earnest were the accents spoken. 

So mellow'd is the scene as I recall it ! 
As when upon a tranquil night in autumn, 
The moon on some far field is softly shining. 
THE END. 

Printed by John Adams, at Waltham, Mass. 



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